


It's A Nice Feeling

by dapperyklutz



Series: Give Geralt Love [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Uses His Words, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25606186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapperyklutz/pseuds/dapperyklutz
Summary: The hand gripping Geralt tightens for a fraction before their thumb starts rubbing soothing circles over his knuckles.“It’s okay, you’re safe now, darling,” a familiar voice filters through Geralt’s sluggish mind. It takes him a moment to realise that it’s Jaskier. Jaskier holding his hand and cooing sweet nothings, as if it will bring comfort to the injured witcher.“Hmm,” Geralt hears himself say.It’s nice,he thinks,being touched like this.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Give Geralt Love [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859470
Comments: 30
Kudos: 514
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Geralt Fluff Week 2020





	It's A Nice Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> Day 6: Fighting/Contracts/Monsters
> 
> This is considerably shorter because writing the previous prompt burned me out haha. 
> 
> Self-beta'd. Enjoy!

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

All Geralt needed to do was to track down those necrophages that’s been feasting on the town’s cemetery, located in the outskirts near a dense forest. That part was laughably easy, and he made quick work of dispatching them. Rotfiends usually hunt in packs, so that should’ve been his first clue that something was amiss when he only saw three.

The moment Geralt’s silver sword, slick with necrophage oil, cuts off the third rotfiend’s head, he hears rustling coming from the edge of the forest. He looks up in time to see a dozen more come out, the breeze carrying the stench of their decomposing bodies and nearly overwhelming Geralt’s senses.

 _“Fuck,”_ Geralt curses as he grips his sword anew. He’s half-tempted to just cast Igni on them, but that’s a rookie mistake and Geralt has every intention to make it out alive. “Fucking fuck. _Shit_. Should’ve doubled the reward, fucking buggers.”

The nearest necrophages make a lunge at Geralt, and he easily strikes them down. He manages to take down half a dozen while he signs Aard at another, teeth gritted and face fixed in a scowl. Unfortunately, one manages to sneak behind him and hit his side, causing the witcher to stumble. Geralt growls before he pivots and cuts off their arm before slicing their head off, only to have a second rotfiend pounce on him. The force knocks him to the ground, his grip on his sword loosening.

“Ugh, chew a fucking mint,” Geralt snarls when they descend on him, their breaths reeking of death and viscera.

He kicks and punches them before he sees a window of opportunity to grasp his sword and cast a quick Aard, causing them to fly off at a considerable distance. His ribs are aching and his side is burning, and Geralt can feel blood running down his flank from where he was struck. The second wave of the creatures rapidly approaches, and Geralt uses the few seconds he has to take the bottle of necrophage oil from the pouch attached to his hip and tip the contents over his silver sword.

Better safe than sorry, he thinks as he returns the empty bottle in his pouch.

Geralt grits his teeth and braces himself for a long night.

~

He passes out in the field, surrounded by mangled corpses of the monsters he’s slain. The last thought that passes over Geralt’s mind before he loses consciousness is—

_Fuck, I’m never gonna hear the end of this from Jaskier._

~

Some time later, Geralt regains consciousness.

The first thing he notices is that he’s lying in something soft, if a little scratchy. _Hmm, straw mattress, then._

The second is that he’s devoid of his armour, the familiar feeling of bandages wrapped around his torso and shoulders alerting him that he was found and is somewhere safe.

The third thing Geralt notices is the feel of warm, calloused fingers tightly clasping his limp hand. His brows furrow at the unfamiliar sensation of someone voluntarily holding his hand, their fingers entwined like lovers do.

Geralt distantly hears himself grunt, the sound low and pained even to his ears.

The hand gripping Geralt tightens for a fraction before their thumb starts rubbing soothing circles over his knuckles.

“It’s okay, you’re safe now, darling,” a familiar voice filters through Geralt’s sluggish mind. It takes him a moment to realise that it’s Jaskier. Jaskier holding his hand and cooing sweet nothings, as if it will bring comfort to the injured witcher.

“Hmm,” Geralt hears himself say. _It’s nice,_ he thinks, _being touched like this._

Jaskier lightly squeezes his hand, then there’s a rustling of fabric followed by the scraping of a wooden chair being shuffled closer. A moment later and Geralt feels fingers brush a few strands of hair from his forehead to tuck it behind his ear. Another trails featherlight touches across his cheek, the heavy breathing of the bard next him loud in the stillness of the room.

“I’m so fucking glad you’re gonna be okay,” Jaskier says in a choked voice. “I demanded the alderman double your reward, because those were _not_ a few necrophages you fought, my dear.”

“Nngh,” Geralt grunts in agreement.

Jaskier laughs, a wet sound as he sniffs. Something in Geralt twinges at the thought of the bard crying. He doesn’t like it when Jaskier cries.

“Jas,” he mumbles, although it comes out sounding more gibberish.

“Rest, my love,” Jaskier tells him soothingly, his voice sounding raspier by the second. Geralt hears him sniffle again, followed by the distinct salty scent of tears. “You’re safe. I’ll never leave your side.”

 _Sentimental idiot_ , Geralt muses fondly as he replies with another hum. It’d take more than a pack of those buggers to bring him down.

And yet.

Thoughts of Jaskier worrying over him, doting him like a mother-hen, and tending to his injuries brings a surge of warmth to his chest. And though a part of him feels guilty for distressing Jaskier, the bigger part in him is beyond moved to have his bard care so much for him.

_Hmm. That sounds nice._

~

It takes another day before Geralt is deemed healed enough by the village’s healer.

He collects his payment, two heavy pouch of coins thanks to Jaskier. Geralt is amused at the terrified glance the alderman aims at the bard, who’s standing behind Geralt in his dark purple doublet and a mild expression on his face.

They leave that same day, Jaskier religiously checking over his bandages, much to the witcher’s amusement.

“I’m fine,” he grunts with a small twitch of his lips.

Jaskier gives him a pointed glare. “Well, excuse me for worrying over you, mister! I just saw my best friend look half dead after a night of fighting off nearly two dozen of those nasty rotfiends. You can’t exactly blame me for wanting to check up on your _still healing injuries_!”

Geralt huffs and rolls his eyes, amused and exasperated. But the small smile lingers on his lips as he lets Jaskier flit about him like a concerned spouse.

 _It’s a nice feeling, though,_ Geralt finds himself thinking again while Jaskier checks over his wounds when they stop by a creek for lunch and to replenish their water skins. _I must’ve looked worse than I felt if he still looks this freaked out._

“I’m fine,” he reiterates once Jaskier has finished re-wrapping the bandages on his shoulder. “Stop fretting.”

Jaskier huffs and then shoots him another pointed look. Then his expression turns a little sheepish, cheeks turning a little pink.

Geralt has the sudden urge to kiss those cheeks. But he stops himself. Obviously.

“I know,” Jaskier eventually utters, his tone soft and making Geralt pause from hauling himself up from the boulder he’s sat on. “But I just… just let me, okay? Please?”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just hums in response. Jaskier sighs in relief, and the bright smile he aims at Geralt momentarily takes his breath away.

~

When they make camp later that night, he and Jaskier get into an argument about Geralt going off to hunt for their dinner, much to the bard’s consternation.

“Melitele’s tits, you’re not even completely healed yet!” Jaskier bites back after Geralt snaps at him, his patience wearing thin after _days_ of being mollycoddled. “I don’t give a fuck what the healer said, Geralt. You’re still limping, and I _know_ your ribs are still bothering you. Don’t think I didn’t notice you twinging in discomfort, witcher!”

Geralt growls at him but Jaskier remains steadfast, meeting his annoyed glare with a stubborn frown on his face.

“I’ll be hunting for godsdamn rabbits, Jaskier,” Geralt says through gritted teeth. Then in a sardonic tone, he adds, “It’s not like I’m going to drop dead if they bite me.”

He blinks in surprise when Jaskier flinches, hurt crossing over the bard’s wide blue eyes for a split second before it’s gone. They stand in awkward silence after that, two stubborn fools facing off in front of the blazing fire Jaskier built while Geralt tended to Roach.

When Jaskier remains quiet, Geralt huffs and gathers his crossbow. They’re losing daylight fast, and Geralt doesn’t want to spend too long hunting for their food. He won’t admit it to Jaskier, but he’s right in thinking that Geralt’s not fully healed yet. Better not give the bard more reason to smother him with his doting. Geralt appreciates it, of course. In his own way. And he knows it’s just Jaskier’s way of taking care of him, but there’s only so much he can take at a time.

He just didn’t know he reached his limit when they started arguing earlier. 

“I’ll be back soon,” is his parting comment.

He glances over his shoulder at Jaskier, who has started to lay out their bedrolls. The bard briefly meets his eyes and then nods. Geralt doesn’t like the way his chest tightens when he notices the slump in Jaskier’s shoulders.

Ah, fuck.

A sad bard is almost as bad as a crying bard, and Geralt prefers neither of those versions of Jaskier. Not if he can help it.

~

He returns to their camp less than thirty minutes later. Geralt efficiently skins and roasts the two rabbits he caught while Jaskier sits opposite him, tuning and polishing his lute.

Dinner that night is a silent affair. Geralt can’t help but look up every now and then, but Jaskier’s gaze is focused solely on his food. It’s completely dark now, but his enhanced vision and the firelight makes it easier for him to see the sullen expression on Jaskier’s face, lips fixed into a pout.

He swallows past the dryness in his throat and attempts to strike a conversation with his friend. Jaskier’s look of surprise warms Geralt until the bard gives him a clipped response. Geralt deflates and curses himself for being the way he is. Conversation doesn’t come easy to him, unless it’s with Roach. Even though he and Jaskier have been traveling together on and off for almost fifteen years now doesn’t mean Geralt’s social and communication skills have improved since then.

And yet, seeing his friend, his _best_ friend, be taciturn to him because Geralt wouldn’t let Jaskier tend to him is something that hasn’t happened before. Sure, he’s gotten injured loads of times, almost got himself killed a number of times as well, but somehow this is different. He knows it because he can still recall the acrid scent of worry and fear on Jaskier that time he woke up a few days ago, hand clutching his like a lifeline. Geralt knows his injuries weren’t life-threatening, but he supposes it’s safe to assume that he must’ve looked a sorry state for Jaskier to have reacted the way he did.

He resolves himself to make it up to the bard. And Geralt already has an idea on what to do.

Afterwards, they clean up and stoke the fire, and Geralt lets Jaskier check on his bandages and re-dress his wounds without a single complaint. If Jaskier iss surprised, he doesn't show it, but Geralt can tell he’s pleased because the bitter scent of sadness that’s been lingering all evening slowly transitions into that familiar smell of honey, peaches, and sunshine.

“There, all done,” Jaskier announces with a final pat on his right flank.

Geralt hums and puts as much sincerity in his tone when he says, “Thank you.”

Jaskier looks up at him to meet his steady gaze, cornflower blue eyes tender and warm with affection.

They settle down on their bedrolls soon after, and this time Geralt puts his plan into action.

He reaches over and tugs Jaskier’s bedroll closer until they’re pressed together. The bard gives a surprised squawk but follows his lead with minor complaint. And Geralt appreciates it more than words he can ever think to say. That blinding trust no one has bestowed upon him until Jaskier came into his life makes that familiar warm feeling in his chest to spread further.

He shuffles lower, Jaskier shifting and turning to accommodate his large frame. It takes another few seconds before Geralt is satisfied with their positions. Jaskier is lying on his back while Geralt pillows his head on the bard’s shoulder, his face buried in the crook of Jaskier’s neck. Geralt drapes an arm over his torso, tugging him closer until their bodies are entwined, his leg tangled between Jaskier’s. One of Jaskier’s arms is wrapped around his broad shoulders, nimble fingers running through the tangled knots of Geralt’s silver-white hair while the other trails patterns and soothing circles over the arm slung across his chest.

Jaskier is humming low under his breath when Geralt finally breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he begins haltingly. Jaskier’s ministrations on his hair and arm falter for a second before it resumes, but he stops humming. Geralt takes that as a sign to continue. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your help. I _do_ , it’s just… I didn’t consider how you must’ve felt, seeing me in that state.”

“It’s okay,” Jaskier says after moment of silence. Geralt knows he means it because he can hear the bard’s heartbeat pick up, as well as the scent of peaches and honey, and something citrusy he can’t pin down. “I’m sorry, too.”

Geralt grunts in confusion. “What the fuck for?”

Jaskier snorts but continues trailing nameless patterns on his skin. His touch is delicate, fleeting, yet each contact lights up a path in Geralt, grounding him to the moment and to the man whose deceptively strong arms are wrapped securely around Geralt’s hulking form.

He loves it.

“For being too much, sometimes,” Jaskier responds quietly, and Geralt makes a noise at the back of his throat when he hears the vulnerability, the _insecurity_ in the other man’s voice. “I know you don’t like it when I coddle you and dote on you whenever you get injured, but I can’t help it. You mean so much to me, Geralt. So when I saw you the morning after… when you didn’t return to our room after promising me that you’ll be back before dawn… I don’t think I’ve ever felt terror like I did that day.” His voice hitches, and Geralt feels Jaskier’s arms tighten around him. “I thought I lost you, and it nearly broke me when they carried your unconscious form from the carnage.”

Geralt feels like he just got punched in the gut. Before he can say anything though, he feels soft lips press gently on top of his head. Geralt’s breath hitches at the tender gesture.

“Forgive me for acting this way,” Jaskier continues, and he sounds self-deprecating that Geralt _hates_ it. He never wants to hear his bard sound like that ever again. “It’s only because I care about you and your welfare. And also because I’m fucking relieved you’re alright.” With a playful tug of Geralt’s hair, he implores, “Please don’t do that again, darling. I don’t think my heart can take it.”

Geralt knows he can’t make that promise, and he knows that Jaskier knows it, too. But it’s the thought that counts, he supposes. A reminder for Geralt that he has someone who enjoys his company, who needs him. But above all, that Geralt has someone to come home to.

It’s not an ideal life for a witcher, he knows. But Geralt is an unconventional witcher, anyway.

So he whispers, “You’re not too much. Never to me.”

Jaskier is silent, before he breathlessly says —

“Oh.”

Geralt lifts his head and waits until Jaskier meets his gaze with a profound expression.

“Thank you,” Geralt murmurs. He knows he’s gazing meaningfully at Jaskier, is more than aware that his words sound a lot like _I love you_ , but he doesn’t care.

When Jaskier remains quiet and continues to look at him in wonder and reverence, Geralt offers him a small smile before he cranes his neck to press a tender kiss on shocked lips. Then he settles back in his spot on Jaskier’s neck, like what he just did didn’t alter their relationship moving forward.

Several seconds pass before Geralt feels soft lips press on his head and remain there. Jaskier’s arms tighten around him and they slowly drift off to a peaceful slumber, small smiles etched on their faces.

**Author's Note:**

> Toss a comment or a kudo to your writer, oh reader a-plenty!
> 
> Here's my [Tumblr](https://jaskierstark.tumblr.com) if you wanna say hi.


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